


A Horse Of Course

by a_shepherd



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Command Style, Gen, Hiding in Plain Sight, Horses, Life Lessons, Prole vs Vor, Rat Bars, Wagering, Where Miles Gets It From, family ties, pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 05:36:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_shepherd/pseuds/a_shepherd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A companion piece to ana's delightful Barrayaran Life Lessons... Set in the early years of Aral Vorkosigan's captaincy, as Lieutenant Padma Vorpatril recounts to Emperor Ezar Vorbarra the 'how and why' of Aral's rather peculiar life lesson as revealed at the dinner party. The daftness continues...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Horse Of Course

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Barrayaran Life Lessons...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/871280) by [ana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ana/pseuds/ana). 



> Based on Barrayaran Life Lessons...  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/871280?view_adult=true

      “Yes, sire, in retrospect, I certainly understand how people might think sneaking a horse aboard a ship to be a bit of an oddity. And I agree completely, sire, 100% - it _was_ outrageous. _Outrageously_ outrageous! I can assure you, sire, it seemed like a perfectly good idea at the time. And neither of us was that drunk. _Yet_.”

     Until that moment, I admit I had _just a smidgen_ of doubt about how this was going to go down. It’s not every day a lowly lieutenant gets a summons to the Residence. At five in the morning! Watching Emperor Ezar carefully, I’m beginning to suss out his tell - I’m fairly certain I notice the faintest beginnings of a snicker, the corners of his lips trying not to curl, the light in his eye… which bodes well for me and Aral. But this isn’t poker and even if he _is_ our second cousin twice removed or some such AND an uncle by marriage, he’s still the bloody emperor! Quite unsettling at this hour. You’d be meeping a little too!

     I’d never been alone with the emperor before, which was adding to my apprehension, although Aral - technically my beloved cousin, emotionally my big brother, and _always and forever_ my best friend, speaks very highly - and more importantly - warmly of him. My beloved cousin is not going to be of much help at the moment, I’m afraid, as he’s currently out of commission. He’s no longer passed out but sleeping it off, sprawled out on a damned comfortable looking, overstuffed leather settee. He’s snoring ever so softly as is his wont, in one of the imperial offices. Never been in it before, not that I’ve been in all that many. It’s a dark green silk affair - a bit stuffy for my taste...

     I must say, the expression on Aral’s sleeping face is that of someone who’s insufferably pleased with himself. Good for him! The man’s far too serious - _most of the time_... Under the right circumstances, though, usually when bored, and it takes a lot to bore him, he’s got a mischievous streak a mile wide. Not that he ever does anything criminal, mind you, or dangerous. Well, not _too_ dangerous. He pretty much confines himself to The Totally Unexpected. He’s always been that way. Most people don’t know that about him and would never guess it with that Perfect Soldier facade he’s perfected since he was a very young boy.

     Emperor Ezar’s beginning to look a tad impatient, never a good look on an emperor, so I say, “Well, y’see, sire, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my twenty-three years, if Aral Vorkosigan’s taking the lead, in anything, it’s best to just stand back, give him free rein, and admire a true artist at work. It’s a sure thing, sire, a no-brainer, and you can take _that_ to the bank.”

     At this point, the emperor looks like he’s about to bite my head off. He growls, “Damn it, Padma! I’ve known you since you were a scabby-kneed, snot-nosed little boy. Him,” he flicks his gaze back to Aral, “even longer. We’re all family here, so lose the ‘sire’ crap already. ‘Uncle Ezar’ will do nicely. I get enough ‘siring’ all day, and today has been an uncommonly long one. This horse business is just the icing on the cake! I had fond hopes of getting to bed at some point. So don’t try my patience by pussyfooting around and just tell me what happened. Preferably starting from the beginning.” He glares at me for an uncomfortable moment, assessing my mettle, perhaps? He asks with a smirk, “Made out like a bandit, did you?”

     I gulp and try to gather what’s left of my wits. Aral would _never_ find himself at a loss like this, not with the emperor. And precious few else. I smile hopefully and brace myself before beginning the tale.

     “Um, well, yes, as you seem to have already heard, a sizable wager _was_ involved, and I - _we_ \- DID make a rather tidy profit on it,” I said. His expression was unreadable. “My idea completely, sire. Sorry, sorry… _sir_. On a lieutenant's pay, I find I sometimes have to get - shall we say, _creative_ \- to supplement my income whenever the opportunity arises. Oddly enough, it often does when I’m with Aral. He always lets me keep half; he’s quite a generous soul. He really couldn’t care less about the money - his half goes to our Maple Mead Fund. *(see below) He simply does it for the challenge, which he can’t resist. Really, sire - _sir!_ _Yes, yes, I know, all family here. Right - I’ll try to remember_ \- really, it’s like a moth to the flame. And he absolutely HATES to lose. At anything. Sports, cards, friendly wagers... war games...”

     The emperor-our-uncle growls ever so slightly under his breath. Imperial throat-clearing has quite a wonderful way of sharpening one’s focus, I must say!

     “Yes, well. About those war games, sir - after the shakedown cruise for the new battle cruiser _Dorca Vorbarra_? Surely you must have heard by now how _those_ turned out? Aral won everything that wasn’t tied down, but I’m sure _you_ expected that, knowing him as well as he frequently assures me you do. _I_ certainly did. Long story short, there was some considerable grousing in the officers’ mess at dinner later that evening.”

     God, was that only last night? _Oy! Get a grip, Vorpatril,_ I tell myself. _Yeah, right! You’re hung over and half asleep on your feet, but he’s The Emperor! Of bloody Barrayar! Sitting three feet in front of you! They never tell you at the academy that there will be days like this…_

     I take a deep breath and hold it a bit, using a nifty calming technique I picked up from a yoga instructor on Beta Colony last year. A very fetching yoga instructor, I might add. But I digress. The quirk in Uncle Ezar’s left eyebrow has taken on a distinct whiff of menace. I can take a hint...

     “Right, then. Quite _a lot_ of grousing, to be honest, sir... from the other senior officers; mostly how the PTB shouldn’t have allowed Captain Vorkosigan to participate in _every_ event. To kinda let t _he rest_ of the officers have a chance, y’know? Got a bit heated, there for a while, I’m sorry to say, until Fleet Admiral Vorlakial - delightful chap, by the way - got everyone calmed down, but it took some doing with Admiral Kanzian. Seems a bit of a hothead to me, when he’s not being holier-than-thou, but Aral talks about him like he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread. To hear him tell it, Kanzian’s just overcompensating for being the first prole to make it beyond captain and is constantly trying to prove his promotion wasn’t a fluke. I don’t understand the attraction myself, but I’m guessing it’s probably a strategy wonk thing, and God knows, Aral’s as wonky as strategists get.”

     Our esteemed emperor has settled himself down into a cushy-looking chair behind his desk with an anticipatory gleam in his eyes. He pointedly does not offer me a seat. I look enviously at Aral, away with the fairies. Not entirely sure _how_ he turned up _here_ in the Residence after we separated. Last I saw him, he and Admiral Kanzian were three sheets to the wind, belting out a badly off-key rendition of _MacPherson’s Lament._ **

     “Uncle Ezar... sire? _Sir?_ Might I just take a minute here?” I wave an arm toward Aral. Even out like the proverbial light, he’s still all buttoned up, ship-shape and squared away. Still the Perfect Soldier. My throat aches just looking at him…

     The emperor grunts in a non-committal sort of way which I choose to interpret as assent, and go to Aral. I breathe a sigh of relief myself as I unbutton his high, stiff collar. These damn collars on our dress greens are hellishly uncomfortable for sleeping in. Heh! Or for doing much _else_ in, while we’re on the subject. I let out a chuckle - under his tunic is a decidedly non-regulation t-shirt that reads, ‘Use the Force, Luke.’ Hmmm, it seems his mischievous mood began even earlier than I thought, first thing in the morning by the look of it, before horses were even a gleam in his eye. Seems like such a _long_ time ago…

     Aral mumbles something in Russian I can’t quite make out, and rolls on his side, draped precariously over the edge of the settee, defying gravity, looking completely boneless. _Lucky sod,_ I think to myself, _fast asleep while Yours Truly has to explain how and why you came to smuggle a horse onto the flagship!_ The _how_ I can deal with, but the _why?_ Does _he_ even know? Other than squelching his post-prandial boredom and/or being congenitally unable to back down from a challenge?

     The more I think about it, though, probably for the sheer shock value - _Aral Vorkosigan DID WHAT???_ I think he actually _enjoys_ trashing people’s expectations of him now and again. It’s always the quiet ones… In the morning - well, later in the morning anyway - I’d be willing to bet anything the whole capital will be abuzz with it. It’s certainly all over ImpMil by now. Hmm, if I’d thought this through more thoroughly, as Aral would have, I’d have noticed that wagering possibilities abounded - chief among them, which news service will break the story first. I sigh heavily at the lost opportunity...

    “You see, sire… um, sir,” I tell our imperial relative, “Admiral Vorlakial had deftly managed to turn the conversation away from my Coz here and his having cleaned the collective clocks of the rest of the fleet, and somehow the topic meandered into a discussion about Count Midnight, who, I’m told, always voted _neigh_.” Neither of us can resist a nicker. Eep! Did I say _nicker_? Sorry, I meant snicker. _Oh, my God! Atrocious horsey jokes in the wee hours of the morning… I blame Aral._

     “Since nearly everyone, including Aral and myself, was sloshed in varying degrees by that time, the almost pleasant conversation turned into a hotly contested debate along social lines. The prole officers were adamant it would have been impossible to sneak a horse - or much of anything else for that matter - into the council chambers, especially in those wildly paranoid days. No doubt because most of the proles aren’t that familiar with horses, unless they grew up on farms. Unlike like most of us Vor, especially the high Vor, who usually learn to ride as soon as we can walk. I know Aral certainly did. You probably did. Our Gran held out on my behalf till I was a bit older - and not quite so terrified of the horses’ size. Um, don't tell Aral I said that... The Vor contingent were equally adamant that the tale of Count Midnight was gospel truth.”

     The emperor nods in agreement. I begin to relax a wee bit more. “Aral was bored by then and seemed not to be paying attention to the heated discussion. He’d been doodling for some time on his napkin - something architectural, I believe it was - when he spoke up in that quietly authoritative way of his to say that getting a horse into council chambers was easy enough to do. ‘Hell,’ he said, ‘I can just as easily sneak a horse aboard a ship.’ He added that the _real_ trick was sneaking it back off again.”

     I take a quick peek to see how Uncle Ezar was taking it. So far so good… “That, as you might imagine, set off quite an uproar! Even our fellow Vor joined the chorus calling him on it. Didn’t phase him a bit - he just kept quietly doodling, having moved on to sketching caricatures of the admirals present. Heh! The one of Admiral Vorbohn was particularly arch, as I recall... I recognized that gleam in his eye and knew it was going to be a long, busy night. Not that I was complaining, sir, not at all. Far from it. Aral can be incredibly entertaining when he’s in a mischievous mood. Frequently alarming, it’s true, but entertaining. And often monetarily rewarding if I play our hand right.”

     Looking fondly at the still snoozing Aral and snuggling more comfortably into his chair, obviously getting into the tale, Uncle Ezar asks, “Who was the damn fool who made the bet, then?” the expression on his face clearly conveying that the unfortunate fellow was some kind of idiot. Within the family, it’s common knowledge: never _ever_ bet against Aral Vorkosigan. As the newly minted Admiral Kanzian was soon to find out.

     Warming to the meat and potatoes of my story, I continue, with much more enthusiasm than before. “Admiral Kanzian, overconfidently sure of himself, wagered a year’s pay. Aral, having only a captain’s pay to work with, stunned everyone by betting _two_ years worth. You possibly might have heard the crowd’s collective gasp of shock from here? No? Well, Kanzian set the terms: Aral had a full day cycle - starting immediately - to get a horse on board a ship. A _live_ horse. He probably felt he was being magnanimous saying _any_ ship would do. And he had to see the horse for himself.”

     Chortling at the memory, I told him, “I almost felt sorry for the admiral. _Almost!_ The news spread like wildfire throughout the fleet. I kept getting messages on my wristcomm from crew members on other ships wanting in on the action. When I left the mess hall, officers and enlisted men alike were lined up halfway down the corridor outside, waiting to place their bets. Only a very few, and they were all Aral’s crew, bet on _him_. By that time, Aral had left the hall, saying he had to see a man about some provisions. What that meant, I couldn’t imagine. While I had no doubt he’d pull it off and had a hard time keeping a straight face while taking their wagers, poor saps, I hadn’t the faintest notion of _how_ he was going to do it. You might not be aware of it, but my dear Coz has always had very little interest in horses, much to Uncle Piotr’s consternation. Oh, certainly he’s an excellent horseman. What _doesn’t_ he do well, eh? Um, although now that I think of it, maybe his _singing_ ability is not quite up to the standard of his other talents? Especially after he’s had a few? Please don’t tell him I said that...”

     Uncle Ezar clears his throat. A warning, perhaps? I know, I know, I tend to digress… Bad habit. “But no, Aral’s definitely not what anyone would call a horse person. So I was intrigued. And, um, just so you know, sir, I’ve previously consulted our military legal eagles, and wagering is _not_ prohibited in any way as long as no one bets against our side in a military engagement. Which is a hell of a good thing, as half our military would be under arrest at any given time.”

     He grunts in wry agreement as the door to the room opens and a bleary-eyed Residence staffer enters, carrying a tray laden with coffee and cakes, the sight of which nearly has me drooling. “Well, don’t just stand there, boy. Pull up a chair and help yourself.”

     I thank him, trying to hit the proper note between professional deference and a sort of chatty, familial ease, while trying to refrain from stuffing myself with the excellent assortment of pastries, fresh from the imperial kitchens. Well, hell, can you blame me? It’ll be time for breakfast in a few hours! Horse smuggling works up the old appetite…

     We munch and sip in companionable silence for a few minutes, which is shattered by a muffled _thunk_ and a low sort of grunted moan, which makes both of us turn around to see Aral looking improbably comfortable curled up on the floor, with brown, shriveled, nubby objects spilling out of his trouser pockets. I cringe when I recognize the vile things. “Rat bars,” I tell the emperor. He grimaces at some no doubt ghastly memory. “Idiot horse actually liked ‘em,” I say, accompanied by a gag reflex.

     Taking a long swig, I finish the coffee and wolf down the last of the cream cakes. “Y’know, as Aral said, it really _wasn’t_ that difficult getting the horse on board. At least, it wasn’t difficult for _Aral_. Which is pretty damn amazing, considering he’d had a snootful by then. Not quite to the point where he gets legless and starts declaiming revolution in iambic pentameter, but...”

     I mentally smacked myself on the forehead. _Oh, hell! Way to go, Vorpatril! You’ve just accused your cousin of treason! In front of the emperor! Shit, shit, shit!_ I close my eyes and fervently pray the floor will suddenly open up and swallow me whole…

     When I open them a crack, I’m still here, and the emperor-our-uncle has a wicked grin on his face, whether at my expression of horror, or - as I realize once the panic peaks - because he’s already heard all about Aral’s ‘progressive’ literary rants courtesy of the mysterious Captain Negri. Rumor has it, Negri knows _everything_. Aral says if that doesn’t curl your hair, you probably don’t have a pulse. Uncle Ezar’s reaction is not what I would have expected, although Aral always says the old boy is awfully progressive himself. For an emperor.

     Not wanting to keep said emperor in suspense - I’m not sure if it was the hour or my leisurely story-telling method, but he was looking _a tad_ cranky, so I turn it up a notch. “I’m sure Aral had the whole operation worked out in his head the minute he proposed it. Once he started, it went like any other of his minutely detailed battle strategies during the war games. Bloody strategic genius, he is!”

     Uncle Ezar grins hugely. I take that as a good sign and continue. “So. After that, he proceeded to acquire a medium-sized cargo shuttle, by implying to the shuttle bay techs it was for official business. ‘Can’t fit a horse comfortably in a personnel shuttle,’ he told me. What _I_ want to know is, how the hell does he _know_ that? Has he tried this _before?_ At Uncle Piotr’s stables, he chose an ancient, lethargic looking, heavily greying bay. The thing looked barely capable of movement, but by God, Aral had that beast up on its feet in a flash by offering it what turned out to be crumbled up rat bars he had in his pockets. Prudent of him, I thought at the time, to have anticipated that. I said I had no idea horses liked rat bars - it seems inconceivable that _any_ living thing _would_ , y’know? He told me as far as he knew, only that one did. How did he _know?_ Which again raises the niggling suspicion that horse smuggling was _not_ an entirely new experience for him. Wouldn’t you agree, sire… um, sir?”

     Uncle Ezar says, “One of many talents Our Aral perfected during Mad Yuri’s Civil War,” and adds as an afterthought, “without the ship part, though,” which seems as reasonable an explanation as any I’ll probably get from anyone.

     “That big, shambling grey followed him like a puppy as long as he kept a slow but steady stream of rat bar bits coming. Once we docked on the Kanzian’s ship, Aral went into what I like to call his Admiral on the Bridge Mode. Scuttlebutt is, he’s on a fast track to those yellow tabs - no need to confirm or deny it, sir - and quietly gave orders to the flight deck crew as if he fully expected they’d be followed immediately, even though it wasn’t even his ship! It’s that charismatic command presence of his, I guess. In my experience, it’s not something that can be taught - you’ve either got it or you don’t. He’s definitely Got It. The whole thing depended on him being able to look like he knew exactly what he was doing and convincing everyone else he was supposed to be doing it.”

     Our imperial kinsman looked like he knew exactly what I was talking about and smiled, watching Aral sleep. “I had asked him what he wanted me to do and he just laughed. ‘Be my wingman, as usual, Little Padma,’ he said. ‘Use your initiative to increase our Maple Mead Fund *(see below) when and wherever you get the opportunity. Oh, and if you wouldn’t mind, try to cultivate an air of pompous officiousness befitting an aide to - what was that expression Old Vorlakial used to describe me?’”

     “Which one?” I asked snarkily. _“Bloody menace_ or _rapidly rising star?”_ He laughed as if that was the funniest thing he’d heard in eons. I expected to be schooled in how to bribe and connive and weasel-word. Instead, I got a lesson in how to act like you believe in whatever it is you’re doing AND make everyone around you believe it, too. Not for one minute, at any point along the way, did _anyone_ even seem to consider the possibility that he might be pulling a fast one, as if an officer leading a smelly old nag through the corridors of the ship was something you see every day. He went about it as nonchalantly as if he were a civilian taking the family pooch for an evening walk in the Great Square! ”

     I look at Aral, still sleeping like a baby. Doesn’t seem entirely fair, y’know? We should _all_ be asleep. Or all awake...

     “When we arrived at the ship, he told the shuttle bay crew _very confidentially_ it was all quite hush-hush, that Old Vorlakial’s wife was having the horse sent up as a birthday surprise. Huh! Which just goes to show that not many of our younger enlisted personnel know squat about horses. Excepting the Dendarii, of course… their roads are so bad they’d never get anywhere if it weren’t for horses! Um, don’t tell him I said that, sir… Aside from the fact that the very idea of bringing a horse on board a ship is patently insane, why would _anyone_ give a horse in its retirement years as a gift? The mind boggles!”

     Uncle Ezar, who has just poured himself a second cup of coffee, nods thoughtfully in agreement and says, “Damn good point, boy.”

     “From start to finish, Aral made it all seem like he was just carrying out orders on something highly official, without ever saying so in so many words. ‘Smoke and mirrors,’ he told me, ‘is the key to success in this particular mission. Obfuscation rather than outright lies usually works best.’ He frequently hinted broadly at ‘the need to know’ while casually redirecting attention, feigning a confidence here, a shared “secret” there, making the poor schmucks feel as if they were in on it with a ‘what a tremendous help you’ve been to me - Sergeant, thank you _so_ much.’ All while remaining cool, calm and collected and dispensing those foul rat bar bits from time to time. _God!_ _A bloody HORSE! On a SHIP!_ He was brilliant, sir! Just… well... _brilliant!”_

     Uncle Ezar and I look back at Aral, still curled on his side on the floor, his eyelids twitching with REM sleep. It occurs to me that he’d be more comfortable with his boots off, but I don’t want to risk waking him. The emperor-our-uncle actually seems to be having difficulty keeping the water from eyes as he looks at my cousin with genuine, unabashed affection and orders me to continue.

     “The plan had been for him to lead the admirals to the horse once he had it on board, in front of witnesses. The only real setback, sir, came when he tried to get the beast to stay in Old Vorlakial’s guest quarters after leaving a sizable and odoriferous equine 'calling card' front and center in Kanzian’s. Hah! No way was it going to let the provider of those tasty tidbits out of its sight! No amount of horse whispering from Aral could convince that animal to stay put.”

     Aral belches loudly and sits up, looking at me and Ezar in a state of groggy befuddlement. “Go back to sleep, Aral,” the emperor says. Aral blinks slowly a few times, and belches again.

     “Aye, sir,” he says, giving him a smart salute followed by a sheepish grin before rolling over onto his other side, his soft snores quickly resuming.

     “He’d won the bet in a fraction of the time. The fool beast wouldn’t stay put, so he summoned two of Vorlakial’s security team waiting outside the room and asked them to fetch both Vorlakial and Kanzian to the admiral’s quarters, with a lot of winking and nudging. Only too happy to be in on the surprise, the two security men escorted the admirals in quickly. They were greeted by the sight of Aral, with his hands in his pockets and grinning from ear to ear. Shy, though, rather than gloating or "in your face" - that's just not his style. And a horse. A live horse, absentmindedly nuzzling Aral’s hair. The look on Vorlakial’s face? Purest encrogglement! As for Kanzian, he looked absolutely dumbfounded. Aghast! Totally stunned! His eyes popped and - y’know that squiggly little vein on his forehead? - it throbbed like it was going to explode! And then - well, it was the damnedest thing, sir - he let out this amazingly exuberant laugh and grabbed Aral’s hand, shaking it, clapping him on the back, laughing so long and hard he was crying! They left arm in arm like a couple of old school chums, laughing uproariously. I had to call sick bay for a medic, who had to give Old Vorlakial a sedative.”

     I can’t interpret the expression on the emperor-our-uncle’s face. A cross between mild concern and smug superiority rather sums it up. “Ah,” I say, “I see you’ve already heard about _that_ … At his age, though, I suppose finding a horse eating rat bars in your quarters will do that to a man. Aral will be sincere and fulsome in his apologies when I tell him what happened. And since Aral was then off with his idol, it fell to me to return the horse to Uncle Piotr. He never knew it was missing. Before I left, I checked up on Aral, and as I mentioned earlier, the last I saw him, he and Kanzian were serenading the troops, looking like bosom buddies. I figured he’d had nearly enough to pass out from the number of empty bottles they had stacked into a tower, and knew it wouldn’t be much longer till he was under the table.”

     The emperor-our-uncle hands me a very crumpled piece of paper advertising The Aral Sea Teahouse *(see below) in the oldest section of the caravansarai, printed in Russian.

     “The other side,” he says. I flip it over and written on the back in a florid scrawl is the message: _Make this man an admiral. Soon! We need him!!!_ It was signed _Kanzian, Admiral, Barrayaran Imperial Forces._

     “Cheeky bastard, isn’t he?” Uncle Ezar says. “It was pinned to the front of Aral’s uniform when he was very reverently deposited at the front gate by Kanzian’s junior officers.”

     “Ah,” I say. “So _that’s_ how he got here. _Are_ you going to make him an admiral, sir?”

     His imperial highness snorted most indecorously. “Your scuttlebutt’s accurate, as scuttlebutt so often is. I’d do it right now, but the boy would have to fight off non-stop accusations of nepotism. He already deals with enough of that ridiculous nonsense as it is. I’ll give it a few more years.”

     He gets up and takes Aral’s legs while I grab him under the arms and we manhandle him back onto the settee. My Coz may not be big, but he’s _solid_ , so it’s an effort. I tell Uncle Ezar, “I’ll take him home with me, sir.”

     “Very gracious of you, but no need. I’ve sent for some Vorkosigan armsmen. They should be arriving momentarily. Satisfy my curiosity if you can, boy. What was the horse’s name?”

     “I wouldn’t swear to it, sir, but I think Aral called him Prince a few times when he was trying to sweet-talk the beast into staying put in the admiral’s quarters.”

     “Hah!” Ezar barks triumphantly. “I _knew_ it! _Had_ to be! The only horse he knows well enough to know it could be trusted to stay docile on a shuttlecraft. Incredibly lazy animal! The horse’s full name, by the way, is The Gas Prince, after his unfortunate tendency toward flatulence. Old Gassy always _hated_ Aral, for no reason any of us could ever discern. Nipped him viciously. Frequently. Kicked him. Threw him whenever he could. That was, of course, before Aral stumbled on the rat bar trick.”

     “So the horse is _always_ like that? _Gassy?_ Hard not to notice. Especially in the confines of shuttle, even if it _is_ cargo-sized. I thought it was from the rat bars.”

     We both shudder at the thought of all the rat bars that had ever been inflicted on us. Him far more so than me, what with the twenty years of the Occupation he’d lived through. Not to mention the two more during the civil war getting rid of Mad Uncle Yuri that eventually put him on the campstool. I shudder again at the thought of it...

     Two big, brown and silver clad Vorkosigan armsmen are shown in, and they expertly gather Aral up and out. “You’ll continue to look after him for me won’t you?” Uncle Ezar asks, looking at me appreciatively. “Not that he’s needed much looking after since that business with Vorrutyer, thank God.”

     “Sire,” I say fervently, “it is an honor and a priviledge. My word as Vorpatril.”

     “Good man,” he says, looking slightly misty-eyed again, but that could have been due to the rapidly encroaching dawn. “Has Kanzian paid up yet? Be sure to inform him and any laggards you encounter that I request and require all my officers to pay up promptly on their gambling debts. You might also warn them to _never_ bet against a Vorkosigan. I consider that a life lesson. They’d be wise to follow my example.” He grins wryly at a thought which has obviously just occurred to him. “Heh! That might cut into your Maple Mead Fund *(see below) somewhat, though.”

     Trying not to quail too badly at that possibility, I say goodbye and salute the-emperor our-uncle smartly, bowing my way out not far behind the Vorkosigan armsmen, following a trail of rat bar bits that had dribbled out of Aral’s pockets as they carried him.

•••

I never _did_ find out why it would be harder to sneak a horse _off_ a ship.

**Author's Note:**

> * see: http://archiveofourown.org/works/339987  
> ** see: http://www.lyricsmania.com


End file.
